


You Can Take the Boy Out of the City

by crewdlydrawn



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Arthur's POV, Dreamshare jobs assumed but not outright mentioned, How They Met, M/M, One Shot, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Tumblr: fandomwritingchallenge, fandomwritingchallenge, mention of mal, more tags as needed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 14:58:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11671416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crewdlydrawn/pseuds/crewdlydrawn
Summary: Invited to his friends’ wedding, city-boy Arthur finds himself in the middle of Midwest America, out of his element, and caught off-guard when a spark ignites in an unlikely location.**For July 2017's Fandom Writing Challenge on tumblr.





	You Can Take the Boy Out of the City

If a person out of place in their environment “stuck out like a sore thumb”, Arthur was absolutely certain he needed new and more severe terminology to describe how he felt as he stepped down from the bus.  His destination lay far enough from any known airport that it had taken a train and two buses to deliver him at last, and a certain amount of regret for leaving the city greeted him alongside the flat, empty countryside.  Sure, a smattering of buildings lay before him, the bus just grazing the edge of town, but on the other side rolled nothing but farming fields.

A vacation, he reminded himself.  He could just think of it as a vacation, though he was never quite able to sell himself on the idea of spending a vacation in the middle of nowhere being better than staying inside his apartment for the weekend.  As it was, the sun already hung low on the warm Friday afternoon, and he had maybe two hours to find his lodgings and figure out the best way out of the loose collection of town-like objects and to the converted farm his friends had found themselves living on.

Slinging the strap of his laptop case over his shoulder, the overnight bag next from beneath the bus's lower compartment, Arthur checked the address in his email one more time.  It was entirely possible he could find the building before dark without help, but in lieu of wandering around in an obvious way, he pasted the address into his maps app. 

_You will arrive at your destination in twelve minutes._

Shrugging to himself, acknowledging that it could have been worse, he started along the quiet streets, full-length sidewalks intact.  Far from a bustling metropolis, Arthur saw fewer than a dozen people in the six blocks between the bus stop and the broad, ruddy brick face of his building destination.  While the exterior looked little different from an adjacent storefront and other buildings lining the block, the inside of the “Mountain Hermitage” was bafflingly incongruous. 

From its moniker, Arthur had expected the rustic aesthetic of the stereotypical mid-western movie-scape—the exposed beams and rafters, sooty metal woodstoves, old black and white photographs hanging on the walls in haphazard patterns—but the décor smacked him in the face rather like a fresh resort.  White-painted walls completely clear of hanging decorations greeted him, first, along with round and plushly upholstered furniture in a lobby room that he stepped through in order to find a chest-height countertop space that served as a check-in desk.  Nothing about the building suggested a rustic retreat, let alone allowing any sort of hermitage to be conjured by its sterile modernity.

Reservation confirmed, he headed up the quietly echoing stairwell to the second floor, finding his room at the end of the hall.  A king sized bed covered in every bit as much white as the rest of the rooms he’d passed greeted him to the left, an overstuffed chair and futon couch toward the front by windows overlooking the street, and a bathroom with a footed bathtub to his right.  Setting down his bags, Arthur supposed the strange combination was only fitting.  After all, he’d landed himself in Paris.

Paris, _Idaho_.

\----------

Rafik and Amya had lived in the city with Arthur for a number of years.  He’d spent time with them when the three of them were only each friends, and watched them slowly form a romantic relationship while including him as a welcomed third wheel.  Seeing them less and less had been on his hands, not theirs, the more he got steady work, but their absence once they left the city altogether, returning to where Rafik had grown up, still stung.  When Arthur had gotten a letter from them in the mail, he’d chuckled at the old-fashioned communication, then shaken his head in a total lack of surprise to see the letter was, in fact, a wedding announcement and invitation.  Included in the announcement was an official-looking request that Arthur serve as Amya’s “friend of honor” in the ceremony, a bucking of tradition that fit the pair to a T.

Many would be quick to label the couple, and though Arthur knew they would instantly reject any of those, he also knew that the rejection itself certainly wouldn’t disqualify them.  Bored of the city, they’d moved to a farm Rafik’s family had owned for years.  They weren’t going to run the farming itself, of course, but had access to the house and the older barn no longer used for storage.  Rather than come back to civilization for their celebration, they had invited family and friends to join them out in the middle of nowhere.

Friday night was saved for arrivals and meet-and-greets, Saturday the ceremony and after party.  Allowing for a drunken reception, Arthur set his departure for home on Sunday morning, giving him the weekend.

\----------

If anyone asked, when he finally returned to the city, he’d simply say he’d gone to Paris.  No one would think to ask if he meant the romantic French landmark city or the eighteen square blocks of _nothing_ in which Arthur couldn’t even find a taxi service.  Walking was his only option. 

Not even halfway out of the main part of town, and the streets weren’t even strictly “paved” anymore.  There was blacktop there, somewhere beneath a decade of dirt and drifting dust, but no curbs, no sidewalks, no differentiation between where the road’s surface actually ended and the grass yards to its sides began.  Ten minutes into his walk, the road, such as it was, disappeared entirely, and Arthur found himself stepping onto the questionable combination of weeds and dirt in lieu of losing the shine to his shoes.  Something told him the dress code he was headed for wouldn’t be matching his own. 

“Country clothing” wasn’t something that Arthur owned.  While most of the bodies he approached crossing the grass were clad in some manner of denim on one half or another—or both—Arthur had arrived in tan slacks and vest, a dark blue dress shirt, and a suit jacket.  He had forgone the tie, and was instantly certain that that decision was the only way he would have looked more out of place in the crowd.  Perhaps he should have expected it, but he somehow hadn’t, still.

He heard the music before he could see the old barn, looking only just north of rundown on the outside, though having been cleaned out and fixed up on the inside, as the view through the open double doors allowed.  From the cadence and instruments assaulting his ears as he walked up the wood slatted ramp, the before-party was an honest-to-god square dance.  A hoedown.  One of those was likely correct, he internally assumed.

“Arthur!” a voice cut through the din, if just barely.

Looking around, he scanned the crowd for Amya, recognizing her voice even from the distance.  A smile stretched into the depths of his cheeks as she approached.  “Hey there, bride-to-be,” he teased, not bothering to hide his amusement at her jeans-and-tee-with-a-vest wardrobe, even the night before her wedding.  “You look great.”

Amya hit his arm, playfully.  “Not everyone steps out of a copy of GQ every morning, Arthur dear.”

“I _said_ you look great,” he reminded, all teeth and dimples.  Only a barely-audible hum replied before she grabbed his hand, tugging him across the old wood floor toward a table set up with food and drinks.  A chorus of loud laughter broke through the fiddles and drums, and Arthur quickly spotted Rafik, in his element.  Arthur got a wave from Rafik, and barely a pair of words from Amya before she was whisked away by other friends, leaving him alone to fill a plate. 

The room felt nearly as loud as a city club, leaving little room for conversation when he took a seat at one of the tables set up along the long outer wall, but he didn’t mind.  Observing was much more to his comfort, and once he’d gotten dinner, he took to standing against one of the support beams, nursing a drink and watching the rest of the room.  Being apart earned him at least a dozen encouragements to lighten up, to have some fun, to dance, only two of which came from his friends, but he merely meted out several variations of “maybe later” and stayed put.  Several human trains passed through his space, nearly catching him up, but he stepped back just in time to watch them line through the main floor in something not even close to a conga or any other circling dance, but with enough kicking to satisfy any can-can lover.

What finally got more conversation out of him wasn’t a needled encouragement, but a quiet presence beside and behind him.  A voice needed little sound to betray its owner as decidedly British.  “Not quite the dancing type then, are you?”

Turning only his head, arms crossed and hands tucked into opposite elbows after abandoning his drink, Arthur spotted a man dressed in a brightly colored checkered plaid shirt, all yellows and oranges, hands sitting lightly in the pockets of dark blue jeans.  His legs bowed gently to the sides as he stepped up closer, giving him a wide gait. 

“Not my style,” Arthur tossed back.  A measure of the man could be taken at a glance, one in keeping with the rest of the room’s attendance, but something in his face, in the way his mouth ticked to the side, told Arthur that that first measure was not the only one that might be important.  Keeping the man in his peripheral, Arthur turned back to watching the rest of the room, eyes aiming down only to check his watch and calculate how much longer he should stay before he’d be obviously missed.  Of course, even if he left, there was undoubtedly not much else to do in town aside from finding a bar on the way back to his room.

An agreeing hum sounded from the man, who hadn’t left, seeming undeterred by Arthur’s dismissal and only stepping closer.  Arthur might have been insulted by the ready assumption, but then, he knew exactly how out of place he looked.  “And which of our two darling lovebirds do you know?”

“Both, actually.”  Despite himself, Arthur felt a smile creep into his cheeks, watching Amya and Rafik from across the room as they danced without any apparent embarrassment.  At the question of which city he’d flown in from, Arthur glanced to the side again, the man only having stepped closer, facing the room but clearly watching him.  “New York.  That obvious?”

Tipping his own cup back, the man shrugged in a noncommitting gesture.  “Shiny shoes, ironed slacks,” he waggled his hand in the direction of Arthur’s torso, “the _vest_ …”

“Nothing wrong with a vest,” Arthur argues, keeping his tone light, unoffended, and turning his eyes back on the room.  There was agreement from the man, and more chit-chat about the city, about Arthur’s reactions to the countryside, and a handful of smiles that gave him just a hint at a view of charmingly crooked front teeth.  By the time only a brightly colored back was walking away from Arthur, he realized he hadn’t even asked his name, or been asked for his own.  Arthur watched his retreat back into chatting up some of the small crowd, sizing up his motions and demeanor.  Only once he realized he was staring did he turn back, figuring he’d put in his face-time, and it was time to go. 

Saying his goodbyes to Amya, and hellos as well to Rafik, he was giggled off when he asked about a rehearsal for the ceremony.

“We’re just gonna wing it, man,” Rafik smiled in his direction, his arm hooked around Amya’s waist.  Arthur just shook his head and said goodnight, wondering to himself why he expected any other sort of answer.

The walk back to his room was dark and dusty, but one benefit of seemingly endless flat land was that the sunset lasted longer.  Door locked, settled into the way-too-soft bed, a crooked smile flashed unbidden across his mind as he closed his eyes.  He chose to ignore it in favor of sleep.

\----------

BEEP.                                                     BEEP.    

BEEP.                                                     BEEP.

Eyes still closed, Arthur reached out to the side, fingers fumbling over his cell phone until the alarm was silenced.  He had already switched off the much gentler French singer who had woken him fifteen minutes earlier, and it was time for a disciplined getting up.  After a quick clean-up, he let himself check his messages—most of which were from Mal, and all from that morning a couple of hours ahead of him.  A series of minor updates on the job offer they’d gotten, photos of puppies on the subway, and then a line of exclamation points that, when he thumbed “replay”, grew large and waggled at the center of his screen.

Chuckling, he scrolled to the bottom; Mal had met someone.  A softer smile settled over his face.  The last message updated that she was taking him out for coffee, one of her first tests for a new interest. 

Downstairs, he was amused at how a place referred to as a hermitage found itself full of temporary tenants sharing a communal breakfast area.  Regardless, the food was good, and he supposed it _was_ peaceful to sit and eat without the expectation of chatting anyone up or looking for anyone in particular.  Even with taking his time, he had several hours before he had to be at the old church that was supposedly in the center of town.  More than enough time to find it, as well as to either waste time in his room or wander around.

For the sake of sticking out, he kept to plain slacks and a button-down, phone in hand as he traced the lines of sidewalk.  The full circuit took little more than an hour and a half, even with frequent stopping to take photos for Mal, including a run of selfies in front of a tractor store, a “Feed & Co.”, an old-timey hardware store, and a dubious liquor store.  Each featured his face with a “can you believe this shit?” expression.  He considered going _into_ the liquor store, but knew the wedding party would have plenty, if the bride and groom had any say.

Pausing on a street corner—if he would even _call_ it a street corner when most of the surface was just leftover dust, and the corner itself just a round bit of concrete that looked just as old—to send one last selfie off, not having realized there was anyone behind him, he was startled when a voice sounded from only a few feet back.

“Do you ever go anywhere _without_ that thing attached to your fingers?”  The words rose up in an accent that might have been delightful, if it weren’t for the way it teased beneath Arthur’s skin with each new phrase.  Maybe it was, even so.

“Nope,” Arthur flung over his shoulder with barely a glance, only enough to confirm that it was, in fact, the same man from the previous night in the barn.  Ignoring him but keeping aware of his movements, he thumbed over a fresh message from Mal.

                TEXT:     [Looks like he can help us, actually!]

                TEXT:     [Or, if not us, he can certainly help ME.]

What followed was a manner of lewd emoji combinations that sent a wide smile across Arthur’s mouth as he responded, fondly.  One last bubble popped up on his screen, indicating that she had to go, but to make sure he hurried home for Monday, because it was all coming together.

“Girlfriend?”

Arthur nearly jumped at word right over his shoulder, and quickly straightened, turning his full attention to the side.  “Do you mind?”

That crooked smile was back.  “Not at all, darling.  Please, don’t let me interrupt.”

“Arthur.”

“What’s that, love?”

Arthur let out a slow breath.  “My name.  My name is Arthur.  Please use it, instead.”

“Instead of what, darling?”

Opening his mouth to more forcefully clarify, Arthur spotted the twinkle in the man’s eye, the grin barely restrained by his lips, and sighed.  “Just… use my name, please.  And yours…?”

A hand extended between them.  “…is Eames.  Pleasure.”  The shake was firm, and Arthur found himself noting the smoothness of Eames’ palms, in contrast to the rough pads of his fingers.  It took several short moments for the initial question to come back to his mind.

“And no, not my girlfriend.”  Shaking his phone lightly, he tucked it back into his pocket, as if proving that he could do without.  “I don’t—” pausing, he warned himself about oversharing, despite blue-grey eyes urging him onward, “—Are you from here, or just visiting?”

Humming first, as if he were in on a joke—though his own or Arthur’s, couldn’t be clear—Eames’s shoulders shifted.  “That depends on the angle you’re looking from.”  Despite Arthur blinking at him in confusion, he offered nothing more.  Laughter clearly danced behind the clouds of his eyes, and it sent a shiver of curiosity begging through Arthur’s mind.  He shouldn’t have cared, but found himself desperate to know more. 

Not wanting the moment to become awkward or embarrassing, he offered a ‘see you later’ sort of farewell, heading back to his room.  Halfway up the stairs, he stopped, an idea coming to him.  Back down at the main desk, he got the attention of the older woman behind its counter, counting on traditions of small-town gossip to get him what he wanted. 

It turned out that Eames had once lived in-town for a longer period of time, though was always disappearing here and there for days or weeks on end.  When Arthur pressed, the woman shrugged with a wistful sigh, explaining that no one really know _where_ he went, just that he always had money from somewhere enough to go wherever he wanted.  Leaning in more conspiratorially, she told him that Eames had left town for a couple of years, not far back, only returning recently, and with more bags than he’d left with.  Theory was that it was more money, but he’s such a good boy, such a pleasant part of the town, and generous when needed, that no one much asked him about it in detail.  Arthur couldn’t imagine living in a place with so few people and _not_ knowing something so big about one of them, but he supposed everyone had their secrets.

There were stories, he learned, and each person in town seemed to have heard their own.  The old woman told him Eames had spent a summer travelling along Route 66 until he ran out of road; her middle-aged son explained that he’d had trouble in Tijuana; a younger patron across the quiet lobby added that he’d been on the run from Canadian Mounties—twice; another older woman who seemed a fixture in the main room’s padded rocking chair piped up that, according to her solid information, he’d been backpacking through Europe for the two years he’d been gone, and that was all there was to it.  No one seemed to agree with anyone else’s story or theory, shaking their heads or rolling their eyes.

“Oh, dear, but don’t you mind,” the first woman said with a pat to Arthur’s hand as it rested on the counter.  “He’s a sweetie, and won’t cause you no trouble, now.”  Her smile was reassuring, as if that was the end of that, and Arthur figured it probably was, according to them. 

\----------

Story time had taken longer than he’d anticipated, and by the time Arthur had gotten properly dressed, he wasn’t very early getting to the church.  He was perfectly on time, however, to walk up its wide concrete steps in time with none other than Eames.  No longer fitting into the dusty landscape, he had changed into a three-piece, the vest only highlighting the pleasant barrel shape of his torso.  Offering him a friendly grin, the other man held the door for Arthur, walking in step with him into the open front room.  Inside, Rafik and Amya were talking with a small group of guests that Arthur couldn’t be sure were or weren’t family members. 

Looking up, Rafik smiled at seeing Arthur, and it widened at the sight of Eames beside him.  “Ah!  I see the honored friend has met the best man, already!”  Arthur found himself blinking in surprise that the fact had not come up in either of their interactions.  An arm around Eames’s shoulders, Rafik gave him a squeeze from several inches above him.  “We call him a ‘cousin’, but really, Eames is just a very old family friend.  My first,” he added, Eames lightly patting the front of Rafik’s tuxedo.  Rafik shared a look with Amya, one that Arthur would swear held plenty of words behind it, and that it involved him.  And Eames.

Matching Rafik’s arm with one of his own, Eames slapped his shoulder.  “Well,” he began with an inhaled breath and a cheeky grin, “I believe the bride isn’t supposed to see the groom before the ceremony.”  With that, he nodded to Amya, winking straight at Arthur before whisking Rafik off through a side door.  Amya, thankfully, was far more concerned with handing Arthur the ring meant for Rafik, for him to hold until it was time.

During the ceremony, Arthur stood silently, solemnly, taking his task with respect, but also found he couldn’t help stealing glances across the couple’s backs and to the other side of the two-step dais, even when another pair of eyes were already settled in his direction.  It took effort to keep a small smile out of his cheeks.

\----------

"It wouldn't kill you to be happy, darling," sounded a voice directly in Arthur's ear.  The ceremony had only just finished, and he was untying the bow at his neck in a side room of the church that had been temporarily repurposed as a dressing room. 

Arthur turned, though he had seen in the mirror when he looked up that it was Eames standing in the doorway.  The doorway he'd just closed behind him.  "Who says I'm not?"

Eames lifted a brow, then gestured with a finger wagging back and forth in front of him, towards Arthur's face.  "Those lines, there.  The ones bridging your eyes to your ears, and your mouth to your jaw."

"Are you saying I have LINES on my face?"  Arthur let a teasing incredulity seep into his voice, though internally annoyed that doing so felt as natural as it did.

Stepping closer, eyes never leaving Arthur’s, Eames reached out, running his fingers down the line of Arthur's cheek, poking at its dimple just enough for Arthur to feel it against his teeth.  "Everyone has lines on their face, love... it's only a matter of what they're doing, at the moment."

Arthur hummed quietly, but stayed as still as he could manage.  If this were a game of chicken for who would react, he was not about to swerve first.  “And what, then, are mine doing?”

Both thumbs aligned with his dimples, fingers cupping Arthur's face, Eames stepped close enough to kiss him, all soft lips and gentle tongue, Arthur leaning into it before he meant to.  Parting, he tried for words.  "That was..." but he didn’t have enough to make a sentence.

"Unexpected?” Eames supplied softly, not having let go or stepped backward.  “Not what you planned?"

The emphasis on "planned" pressed Arthur's lips into a firm, grim line.  He was being teased again, and this time was even less fond of it.  "There's a party to get to," he reminded the both of them.

Eames let loose the little crooked grin that went straight to Arthur’s knees.  "Eager to get back to the barn?  Oh, I doubt they'll miss us, yet."

"I believe we are each supposed to make a speech."  A step back, just barely out of ready reach, gave some clarity to Arthur’s mind. 

"I could make a speech right now."  His voice a rougher texture, Eames was looking Arthur over, pointedly.  

Arthur bit back a shudder.  "Stop that."

"What?" 

"Using words in a way that...” he searched for the right way to frame it, “…that makes it feel like you already know me."

"It's not intentional, darling."

Arthur started to point out that _that_ certainly wasn’t helping, but was instead pulled in for another kiss, fingers curling around the side of his neck.

"Until the party then."  Abruptly releasing Arthur, and parting from his mouth, Eames whispered the words before stepping back and walking towards the door again.

"Oh, you fucker."  Arthur resisted the urge to touch his face where his skin could still feel the touch.

"Maybe eventually."  And just like that, with barely another wink, Arthur was alone in the room once again, still feeling the tingle at his lips, and beginning to feel its match elsewhere.

\----------

As parties went, the post-wedding reception looked almost the same as Friday evening’s had, to Arthur, except with fancier clothing and a good bit more alcohol.  Amya had Rafik’s arm hooked through hers, dragging him around and through the crowd in a half-dance, half-meet and greet.  They both looked as happy as he had ever seen them, and for an unselfish moment, Arthur simply watched them, drinking in their joy as if it were his own. 

After that, drink in hand and half drained, he scanned the room looking for Eames.  With no immediate sign, he kept his glass full, putting in his time chatting with Rafik’s family, those he knew and those he didn’t, as well as dancing a song or two with Amya while Rafik cheered and took videos.  At Amya’s insistence, the next dance was between Rafik and Arthur, and only after feeling lightheaded from laughter did he exit the dance floor. 

A fourth full drink passed his lips without any sign of his teasing tormentor. 

Swallowing his disappointment with the dregs from his glass, Arthur nudged Rafik during a quieter moment, the man’s new spouse slow-dancing with Rafik’s brother.  “Where’s your best man at?”  Though he made an effort to ask the question as lightly as possible, Rafik’s expression told him all he needed to know about how it was received.

A twinkle settled into Rafik’s eyes, his elbow edging sideward into Arthur’s, before he shook his head with a shrug.  “He got a call as soon as he got to the farm,” he started, wolf-whistling at Amya as she was dipped by his brother.  “Sounded important.”  Arthur’s brows drew in, his mind reeling with all of the stories from earlier.  “He gave us his gift, wished us a very busy honeymoon, and said he had to head off somewhere.”

The suddenness and mystery didn’t seem to bother Rafik at all, as if it were simply a part of knowing a person like Eames, but Arthur’s mind was focused on the pressure on his lips, the drag of a few days’ stubble at his cheek, the texture of soft-and-rough hands at his skin, lighting small wildfires through his nerves, and he couldn’t help the frustration that built in his gut.

Knowing he had a flight to catch and a much earlier bus to be on come morning, Arthur didn’t stay long, cutting himself off at four drinks so he could still find his way back into town.  On the way back, he got more texts from Mal, reminding him to come right home the next morning, because the job was definitely on.  He was to be on his best behavior for the new faces, a team she had assembled quickly, and with the help of her new contact and _his_ contacts.  Responding that he was always on his best, especially for her, Arthur spent the last hour before bed teasing his best friend about her new beau, keeping his mind off of himself until sleep stole the phone from his fingers.

\----------

Only the first few notes of _Non, Je Ne Regrette Rein_ was necessary to raise Arthur from the bed, come morning.  Happy as he was for his friends, he was eager to get home, to throw himself into the new job and forget he’d met anyone.  He would tell Mal all about it, as he always did, and though she would likely poke at him for more information, tease him for a while, that would be the end of it.

Zipper only just clicking together on his luggage bag, Arthur looked up when a set of knocks sounded at his door.  Assuming facility staff of some sort, his friends already on their way to their honeymoon destination, Arthur took a quick look around the room to make sure he had everything in order before calling over his shoulder for them to come in.  Gratitude for the stay was barely halfway out of his mouth once the door was open before he stopped, straightening up sharply when Eames appeared in the doorway.  He looked different from either of the ways Arthur had already seen him, neatly pressed slacks, sleek belt, and a darkly colored but still somehow loud-patterned paisley shirt that only supported the toothy smile he broke into. 

Leaning into the doorframe, Eames nodded towards Arthur’s bags.  “You sure you can’t spend a little more time around here, see the town?  Some nice land, round about.”

Surprised, Arthur set his laptop bag down, slipping the strap from over his shoulder and neck.  Sinking a tease into the first of his words, he replied, “No, I’ve been in about six buildings, so I think I’ve already seen all of it.  And Rafik said you had to leave…”  He left unspoken the thought that he’d thought he’d seen the last of the man, as well as the feeling that he’d been disappointed.

“I couldn’t very well shove off without at least a little goodbye, then, could I?”  He crossed the room, then, the door pushed towards its latch behind him, and Arthur was once again caught up in a kiss that he had been planning to thoroughly forget the feel of on the plane ride home. 

Instead, he found the smooth leather of Eames’s belt beneath his fingers, keeping him close as long as he dared, stopping just soon enough to keep his head.  “I can’t…”

“Can’t what, darling?”  His voice was so soft, Arthur almost wasn’t sure it had come from outside of his own head. 

Arthur inhaled slowly, collecting himself.  “I have a home to get to, and work to do.  I can’t do this.”  A small tug in his brain reminded him that if Eames were travelling, he could always offer an invitation to New York, that it wasn’t inconceivable that they might meet again.  “If…” _fuck it,_ he told himself, “If you’re ever in New York…”

A ready grin spread across Eames’s face, as if it had been coiled there, waiting to spring into view.  “I was hoping you’d say that, pet.”  Arthur’s brow creased, and Eames lifted a cell phone from his pocket, scrolling through it.  “It seems I’ve been offered an opportunity along the coast, as well, and will find myself somewhere near you, I suspect.”  Arthur’s mouth dropped open, no words obeying his command to follow the motion.  “In fact, I believe we have the same flight out.”  Turning the phone, Eames showed him a flight receipt, and it was indeed the same flight that Arthur had booked for his return. 

With a variety of feelings and thoughts flying through him, not the least of which the stories he had heard and a nagging wondering about timing and Mal’s messages about mysterious contacts, Arthur watched as Eames retrieved a rolling suitcase from the hall, having been hiding behind the wall to the side of the doorway.  “Any objections?”

A sense of excitement charging his veins, Arthur slung his bag over his shoulders, finding that he had none.


End file.
